Home for Half a term
1183 Words
The train ride from Oxfordshire to Newcastle felt longer than usual.
Molly sat by the window, her mandolin case resting carefully on her lap as the countryside blurred past.
Green fields slowly gave way to grey skies.
Stone cottages turned into rows of terraced houses.
By the time the train pulled into the station, the air felt different.
Colder.
Familiar.
Home.
Molly stepped onto the platform, adjusting her bag over her shoulder.
The sounds hit her immediately.
People talking loudly.
Vendors calling out.
The distant rumble of buses.
It was messy.
Unpolished.
Alive.
And for the first time in weeks, Molly felt like she could breathe properly.
“MOLLY!”
She turned just in time to see her younger brother sprinting toward her.
“Jamie—!”
He crashed into her in a tight hug, nearly knocking her off balance.
“Careful!” Molly laughed.
“You’ll send me straight back to the hospital.”
“Sorry,” he grinned, stepping back. “I just missed you.”
Behind him, their mum approached with a warm smile.
“There’s my girl.”
Molly’s chest tightened as her mum pulled her into a gentle hug.
“You look thinner,” her mum said, studying her.
“School food,” Molly joked.
Her mum rolled her eyes.
“Come on. Let’s get you home.”
The house hadn’t changed.
Same worn sofa.
Same small kitchen.
Same faint smell of stew and detergent.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was theirs.
Molly dropped her bag by the door and sank onto the couch.
Jamie flopped beside her immediately.
“So,” he said excitedly, “I saw your video!”
Molly froze.
“What?”
“It’s everywhere!” he continued. “My friend showed me at school.”
Molly groaned and buried her face in a cushion.
“Please tell me you didn’t watch it.”
“Of course I did.”
She peeked up at him.
“And?”
Jamie shrugged.
“I think you’re good.”
Molly blinked.
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?” he laughed. “You’ve been playing since forever.”
Her mum called from the kitchen.
“I thought it was beautiful.”
Molly sat up slowly.
“You did?”
Her mum stepped into the living room, wiping her hands.
“Your grandad would’ve been proud.”
The mention of him made something ache in Molly’s chest.
She glanced at the mandolin case beside her.
“I still mess up a lot,” she admitted.
Her mum sat down across from her.
“Molly,” she said gently, “you’ve always been too hard on yourself.”
“People at school don’t think that.”
Her mum’s expression hardened slightly.
“Those people don’t know you.”
Molly looked down at her hands.
At the faint calluses on her fingers from years of playing.
“I don’t think I belong there,” she said quietly.
The room fell silent.
Then a new voice spoke.
“Belonging isn’t something you’re given.”
Molly turned.
Her grandmother stood in the doorway.
She had entered so quietly Molly hadn’t even noticed.
“It’s something you claim,” her grandmother continued.
Molly smiled faintly.
“Hi, Gran.”
“Come here.”
Molly stood and walked over.
Her grandmother pulled her into a tight hug.
“You’ve grown stronger,” she said.
Molly laughed softly.
“Not sure about that.”
Her grandmother stepped back and studied her.
“You’re standing differently.”
Molly hesitated.
“I’ve been practicing walking without thinking about it too much.”
Her grandmother nodded approvingly.
“Good.”
Then her eyes shifted to the mandolin case.
“You still carry that everywhere.”
“Always.”
“Your great-great-grandmother did the same.”
Molly frowned slightly.
“I’ve heard that before, but… I don’t really know the full story.”
Her grandmother smiled.
“Then it’s time you did.”
Later that evening, Molly sat at the small kitchen table with a cup of tea.
Her grandmother placed an old wooden box in front of her.
“What’s this?” Molly asked.
“Open it.”
Molly lifted the lid carefully.
Inside were old photographs.
Sheet music.
And a small, worn silver guitar pick.
She picked it up gently.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It belonged to your great-great-grandmother,” her grandmother said.
“She was a musician too?”
“She was more than that,” her grandmother replied.
“She was brave.”
Molly leaned forward.
“What do you mean?”
Her grandmother sat opposite her.
“Years ago,” she began, “there was a national folk competition.”
Molly’s heart skipped slightly.
“The same one you’re entering.”
Molly froze.
“What?”
“Back then, it was smaller. Less polished. But just as competitive.”
Her grandmother’s voice softened.
“Your great-great-grandmother entered… even though people told her she didn’t belong.”
Molly felt a strange chill.
“What happened?”
“She performed anyway.”
Her grandmother smiled faintly.
“And she won.”
Molly stared at her.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s amazing.”
“It is,” her grandmother said.
“But that’s not the whole story.”
Molly leaned closer.
“What else happened?”
Her grandmother hesitated.
Then said quietly,
“She beat someone very important.”
Molly’s stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“A girl from a powerful music family.”
Molly’s grip tightened on the silver pick.
“What family?”
Her grandmother met her eyes.
“The Blackwoods.”
The room went still.
Molly’s mind raced.
Finn Blackwood.
Vic Blackwood.
The same family.
“That means…” Molly whispered.
“Yes,” her grandmother said.
“The girl your ancestor defeated…”
“She was Vic Blackwood’s grandmother.”
Molly leaned back slowly.
Everything suddenly made sense.
Vic’s cold smile.
Her sharp interest.
The tension she carried.
“This isn’t just about the competition,” Molly said quietly.
Her grandmother nodded.
“No.”
“It never was.”
Molly looked down at the silver pick in her hand.
It felt heavier now.
Like it carried history.
Pressure.
Legacy.
“What if I fail?” she whispered.
Her grandmother reached across the table and closed Molly’s fingers around the pick.
“Then you fail trying,” she said firmly.
“But you will not run.”
Molly swallowed hard.
For the first time, the competition didn’t feel like a mistake.
It felt like something bigger.
Something meant.
That night, Molly sat by her bedroom window.
The Newcastle streetlights flickered softly outside.
She held the mandolin in her lap.
And the silver pick between her fingers.
Slowly…
She began to play.
A new melody.
Stronger.
Braver.
Like a story waiting to be told.
And miles away at Ashwood Hall, Vic Blackwood sat alone in a guest room, scrolling through Molly’s video again.
Her expression unreadable.
But her thoughts were clear.
History is repeating itself.
And this time…
She wasn’t going to lose.
- Writer
